Not Any More
by Cravatasaurus
Summary: The Dark Lord Voldemort takes another visit to the Riddle Manor on a dark night, but for a completely different reason. And he starts to think about, well, everything. Even evil, sadistic Dark Lords can have moments of insecurity, right? One-shot, complete! Rated T because I'm paranoid about implied torture. Totally canon compliant


The eve was rather caliginous, a bit tenebrous; blackened, gloomy clouds drifted dully in the path of the dimly-lit sliver of a waning moon, effectively masking what little light source was available on this particular night. Forlorn shadows cast obscure tendrils over the ground, curling around every inch of flora possessively. Tonight, everything belonged to the overwhelming, suffocating darkness, and nothing was nearly foolish enough to claim independence from its somber grasp. Not a single star was brave enough to show its face in the drearily dark sky, their blinking, shining mirth hidden until it was deemed safe. The Earth and all things inhabiting it were to be seen in only shades of grey. The air was still with silence, as if the world had, for the time being, simply stopped spinning; no creature was to make its appearance known.

None, of course, except one.

This being was just as silent as the night, creeping forward with a lithe, serpentine grace, its features made more prominent and ethereal in the nearly nonexistent moonlight, rather than the contrary. Its pure white, almost albino-like skin – or scales, either would be considered appropriate – glinted, reflecting what little it could, making the creature seem as if it were glowing from the inside out. It was quite tall, its movements limber and fluid, its form closely resembling humanoid. Black robes billowed around its form, accentuating the deity's thinness, curling around the long, pale, bare feet and dragging through the dry, unattended grass. From a distance, this being could certainly be mistaken for the figure of a rather majestic man.

But one look at the face of this 'man;' oh, one pities the soul unfortunate enough to catch such a glance. Noiseless breath filled this creature's lungs though slim slits of nostrils, so miniscule that it was a wonder how it didn't feel the animalistic inclination simply take great gasps of air to fulfill its survival needs. Its head, though similar enough to a man's in anatomy, housed not one follicle, not one hair, as if it had been purposefully removed; almost like those strange Muggle lasers. High, gaunt cheekbones emphasized its lipless mouth, which was curled downward into a leer so often that it was practically natural. But this being's eyes – stories have been told about those eyes. They were the most striking feature upon its face, by far: scarlet, debatably blood-red; sharp and piercing, centered with black gashes for pupils; almond-shaped. Snake-like. There was no room for such pitiful things like mercy in those eyes, no kindness will ever be bestowed within their ruby depths; once a mortal was fixed upon with their predatory glance, there was no escape – their pull was gravitational, leading you deeper, dragging you through a black hole, stringing the bait just out of your reach, made you long for the power and the pain and the blood – and he, this being, this 'man,' held control over every last detail.

Now, however, there was no such threat of complete domination. He was alone, for the time being; and there was no promise of death held in his customarily taut facial muscles. Instead, it was replaced with a surprising expression, one that a sane person would normally not associate with this being: peace. He was serene, as he walked leisurely toward the looming, daunting presence of the admittedly grandiose manor; tranquil with the darkness that wrapped itself around him that most would cower from in fear and kindred foolish emotions. He was not one to be harmed.

The thick iron gates, rusted and peeling, towered ostentatiously above his head, as if of the nonsensical idea that they could keep him from entering the property. The numerous, swirling designs cast faint, twisted shadows across his visage, but they were paid no heed as, with a meager flick of those slender, lengthy fingers, the latch fell apart, undone by what looked like nothing more than a tiny flash of light. With the squeal of metal-upon-metal and a groan of complaint, the egress creaked open; it was apparent it hadn't been opened for… well, a long time – perhaps a little over a year – and constantly exposed to the harsh elements of nature. The scraggly weeds that littered the lawn had now grown to unprecedented heights, past his waist, left alone for more than half a century. _A new world record, perchance,_ he suddenly pondered, as the surprising thought flickered to the forefront of his mind; he entertained the idea for a few moments before abruptly dismissing it, ashamed at catching himself doing something so blatantly _human _as daydreaming.

There was solid concrete under the soles of his bare feet now, cracked and so obviously discolored even in the limited visibility of the twilight. It scraped at the smooth, soft skin there, unprotected by the thin layer of scales that were arrayed everywhere else across his lanky body. Closer now to the ancient, once-magnificent estate, it became clear that the wood was rotting from its foundations like flesh, eaten by lowly insects and missing large chunks. It was a miracle it could still stand on its own at all anymore.

He paused at the door, which was torn off of its hinges, suspended before him while hanging on with only a couple of screws. From the deteriorated state of this house, it wasn't easy to remember what it once was: flowers blooming year-round in the yard, tended and pruned to perfection; colorful curtains drawn over the windows; a pompous air surrounding the entire place, and everything screamed 'money.' And then he was there, poised just as he was in front of the door – though in a much less _exotic, fear-inspiring _body – and his face lit up in a sadistic, psychotic quirk of those serpentine lips at the memory of those terrified screams of pain; the nerve-wracking, orgasmic sense of thrill that had shot up his spine at the sight of his first kills, horror visibly etched into their expressions, disbelief painting the recesses of their eyes.

Decrepit planks of wood screeched and crepitated under his step, light as it was, as he pushed aside the rather useless door and bade himself welcome into weathered house. It was the only sound that disturbed the calming silence, causing what felt like a ripple in the air around him, breaking the spell that the night had cast upon the entire world, and the Earth began to rotate upon its axis again. Black pupils in the center of scarlet irises dilated to allow for the lack of any source of light. With another simplistic flick of the wrist, and a fell swoop of a loosely robed arm, gripping the handle of his yew wand, the long-deceased wicks of candles burned brightly, and the living-room fireplace crackled merrily with logs that had lain dormant for 50 years. With this, he found that an ample coat of dust blanketed every available space, gathering into nooks and crannies, and a disgusted sneer marred his features.

Another quick charm – one that he hadn't predicted he would have ever had any use for – rendered the area livable. It wasn't to his standards – and it never would be, it had once housed filthy Muggles – but it would have to do for now.

As his gaze flicked around, however, he allowed his hard expression to soften, knowing he was alone. This could have been his home, in some alternate universe, couldn't it?

He collapsed into the chair at the head of the table, slinging his hands nonchalantly over the tattered, once marvelously cushioned armrests, and closed his eyes. There were times – like these – that he, hidden in a beautifully disguised mask of plain ruthlessness, was just so _tired._ Of his followers and their idiotic, feeble, weak minds; of all of the bitter hatred that he had harbored within himself for Merlin knows how long; of the fighting, and the running, and the hiding. Torturing could only relief his stress and pent-up anger for a mere few minutes, and it was all just the _same._ All of their reactions could be sectioned off into the same categories: first was the pleading, the tugging on the ends of his robes, the begging for him to spare them, which annoyed him to no fathomable lengths; then he was delivered the agonized screaming on a silver platter – it really was just too easy – and it was delicious. The victim would then cry for the rest of the day and submit to his every whim for the rest of their miserable, pathetic, sniveling lives. Parallel to everything else that he suffered through on a daily basis, everything had simply lost their sugar-coated glamor, and the brilliance of the kill was dulled down to a bare minimum. Vaguely, he began to question whether it was even worth it anymore.

If his eyes had been open, and had anyone else been present to see, they would have observed a swift flash of green-blue coloring flit over to replace, for a millisecond, the burning red depths. The color his glinting orbs used to possess. He wasn't feeling remorse – no, never remorse for all of the slaughter. He wasn't so easily unraveled. In fact, he wasn't quite sure _what_ he was feeling at the moment.

But he wasn't Tom Riddle; not any longer. After coming so far, reaching so many new heights that the average wizard could only dream of, he couldn't afford to back down now. His goals still stood as they were, and he wasn't about to let exhaustion transform his magnificence to a dimwitted simpleton. He had already proved himself stronger than that. He was the most powerful sorcerer alive!

A hiss, emitted from the distant shadows, alerted the man to the arrival of his familiar, and his eyes snapped open, once more a clear, fierce blood-red. The humongous, commanding presence of a green reticulated python slithered elegantly, majestically from the darkness provided by a corner of the upscale room. Nagini flicked her tongue, tasting the air, before effectively raising herself up into her master's lap and coiling her body almost affectionately around his neck. A forked tongue grazed over the tip of an ivory ear and caressed a hollow cheek. _::They are ready, Massster…::_

He ran a lightly veined hand across her smooth scales, the absentminded action mollifying his frazzled thoughts and the rising anger he suddenly felt at the mention of his practically deranged followers. _::Very well.:: _He sat up straighter in the chair, he face smoothing out until there was nothing left but a outwardly deceiving blankness. He seemed every part the regal, resplendent leader he knew himself to be. _::I'm prepared, Nagini. You know what to do.:: _His Horcrux, in acknowledgement, fell from the top of his chair, to the floor, and disappeared through the rather broken front door.

No, he considered, as he watched the snake navigate through the large gap between the rotting door and equally despondent frame, he definitely didn't feel any remorse. Just… uncertainty, he supposed. For the first time since his first year at Hogwarts, he felt… unsure of himself. It was an odd sensation.

"My Lord," Yaxley began, half an hour later. "I have acted accordingly to your directions, Milord." From an elaborate, expensive, custom leather satchel he drew out a bundle of paperwork and parchments. "Here is what I've found from the Ministry, My Lord, about the Department…"

Meanwhile, his Lord, the rather lonely figure seated comfortably at the noble head of the table, showing an attentiveness he only wished he felt. He couldn't be bothered to berate the imbecile when he stuttered halfway through a scroll, and ignored the look of both embarrassment and total gratefulness that colored Yaxley's face when he glanced up at the snake-man.

It just… didn't much matter to him anymore, really.


End file.
